The Head In The Bin
by Slytherinsnitches
Summary: Sherlock and John are at it again, with a new case. What does the riddle by the mysterious "J." mean? Will Sherlock and John finally get together?
1. Chapter 1

BANG.

Doctor John Watson's eyes twitched.

CLUNCK.

His forehead wrinkled.

CRASH.

His eyes flew open. He got up and walked unsteadily into the living room, leaning against the door frame.

"Sherlock," he mumbled, "What in heavens name are you playing at making all sorts of noise so early. I was trying to sleep."

a dark haired Sherlock glanced over his shoulder. "I'm looking for it." Watson wrinkled his forehead. "It?"

"Yes, Watson! IT! My papers! The case files! Them, those, ah.. These," he said, picking up a rather thin file from under the cluttered desk, "I found them."

Watson gave him an exasperated look. "Yes, I see that. Now try not to make so much noise. I have a headache." he turned toward the kitchen, shaking his head. "Tea?" John called over his shoulder.

"Please." replied Sherlock, sitting down in his chair and leafing through the file. He had just wrapped up a case, but had yet to finish the case report. The file was essential to this report, of course, and Lestrade threatened to not let him work on another case ever again. Not that Lestrade scared Sherlock. Sherlock was Sherlock, and that was most definitely _not_ his division.

Sherlock through the file on the floor and heaved a sigh. It wasn't a very exciting case to begin with, and now he had to fill out an incredible amount of paperwork. Boring.

Watson came in with the tea tray, "Would you like some sugar?"

"Yeah, one cube." Sherlock replied, leaning back in his chair. "Thanks." He said.

John rubbed his bad leg and stared out the window on the opposite wall to the rainy London street. He looked at Sherlock, who was absolutely absorbed in his documents. His piercing grey-blue eyes flying across the page, reading fast as light. Sherlock looked up.

"What are you staring at?" He snapped, frowning.

"Hmm?" Replied John. "Oh, sorry. Not staring. Just thinking."

"Well stop. I'm concentrating."

"I thought you just wanted this case to be over with."

"I do. But _apparently _that involves reading the case files. For this one I have to file a report. Something about tampering with evidence again. I wasn't tampering. I was simply investigating. And I figured out a lot more than those rats at the office ever did." He said, before glancing at John's leg, "You should put that up, it's looking swollen."

John looked down at his leg. He was right, it was pretty swollen. Sherlock got up.

"Wait," he said, "don't get up. I'll get you a foot rest." then proceeded to get him the footrest from next to the desk.

John looked at him, surprised. "I- thank you."

"Mm." mumbled Sherlock, leaning against the kitchen counter. Promptly at the moment that his hip touched the counter side, his phone buzzed.

Text Message:

Blocked number:

The bin is with the head, and the head is with the bin. But neither came first, except the one within.

I see you, Mister Holmes. _Catch me if you can. _

_J._

Sherlock looked around wildly, loping to the window and peering through the curtains. He scanned the tops of the buildings parallel to him. There was nothing. Not a person, not a bird, nothing. The windows. No.. nothing there either. The street. People with umbrellas. A woman, in very bright blue heels, he quickly calculated the angle of elevation, no not possible to see anything from there. Unless she didn't actually see him and just knew where he was. Probably not. Quite unlikely. Nothing out of the ordinary, but he sensed he should be looking for something very _very_ ordinary. But _what_?

"Watson." He barked. "Look. A text." He handed Watson the phone.

"Well, did you see anything?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, of course not. If I had do you think I'd be wasting time talking to you about this?"

Watson looked down. "Point made."

Sherlock turned around and started to pace. "So where did that come from? Who sent it? Why did they send it? What is a head doing in a bin, or a bin in a head? And what do they mean by which came first and who are THEY? Or them? Or him? Or her? And who is J. and why would they be so stupid as to use their initial? Unless it isn't actually their initial and it means something else. But what? Watson, where's my violin, I need to think."

Watson looked at him quizzically. "It's- uh. It's over by the fireplace. I think."

and with that, Sherlock gave way to the depths of his mind.

Watson lay awake that night, too many thoughts crowding his mind. The look on Sherlocks face as he concentrates, the way his velvety voice sounds when he's trying to make sense of something, the way his eyes flit across a page while he reads, the texture of his lovely hair, the cologne he wears...

And he fell asleep with stolen thoughts of Sherlock, whispering, caressing.. dreaming.


	2. Chapter 2

John woke the next morning in a daze. He wasn't aware of where he was for a moment, and then he remembered. His face flushed as he thought of the things coursing through his mind last night. He stared at the cieling. He shouldn't be thinking if Sherlock like that. Why was he even thinking of him like that? Sherlock was his friend.. There was no attraction there.. Or was there? No. No no no. There couldn't be.

John got up and walked into the living room, nearly tripping on a pile of books sitting directly in the doorway. Sherlock was sprawled on the couch in such a manner that his arms and legs were hanging over either side of the couch. His mouth was open, and a puddle of drool had collected on his chin. He had evidently fallen asleep while doing some kind of work, for there were a stack of papers on the table, his laptop open, and random books strewn here and there. John walked lightly, trying to be quiet as he made his way into the kitchen to prepare his morning coffee. However, as he gathered his coffee things, Sherlock's phone rang and buzzed loudly, causing him to wake with a start, shoot straight up, and grab his phone to answer it.

"I was sleeping, Lestrade." he said, aggravated. Lestrade must have answered him, or told him what was going on, because Sherlock stood up, clutching a sheet about his waist, revealing his surprisingly well built, albeit wiry frame, and his pale, snowy chest. John couldn't help but ogle a bit. He was gorgeous.

"Oh." Sherlock mumbled into the phone. "Well. That explains some things then. Yes, we'll be there soon."

He hung up the phone and looked at John.

"Get dressed, John. We have a case!"

Sherlock marched down the cobbled street with John not far behind. Before them was quite a scene. Multiple police cars, an ambulance, and quite a lot of yellow tape. Sherlock ducked under the tape, "Okay. Let me see the body." he said, motioning for one of the officers to show him.

"You must be Mister Holmes." the young officer stated, "It's over here." He lead them to the side of a small building where a number of uniform-clad officers stood in a a circle talking loudly.

"There." The young officer said, pointing to what anyone could have guessed as the reason they were there. On the damp ground, beside a number of overturned garbage bags, lay a severed head. It was the head of a woman, obviously, her glassy eyes staring off into space, their bright green reflecting the flashing lights of the police cars. Her soft brown hair was matted with dried blood and spread about the base of where her head was severed. She was beautiful, and John felt a small pang for her. What had she done to deserve this?

Sherlock moved closer to her head. "Well?" he questioned.

Lestrade opened his notebook, "She was found around 3 this afternoon when the man living next to this building took out his garbage. I guess he opened the bin and this is what he found. He's being interviewed now. He's a bit in shock."

Sherlock pulled out his magnifying glass and began examining her head. "Why is she on the ground?"

"The guy said he panicked and knocked over the bin."

"Hmm." Sherlock continued examining the head before standing up to face them.

"Female, of course. She recently had recently re-applied all of her make up, and the wound to her neck was a clean cut. Probably something very sharp. She was alive when her head was cut off. Cause of death."

"How do you know?" Questioned one of the newer officers to his left.

"Her makeup is perfectly done, but you can see the older, faded line of eyeliner sticking out a bit, there are no jagged edges on the neck wound, and there was still quite a large amount of oxygen in her blood, as seen by the spattered blood, well, everywhere." He glanced at Lestrade, "I could probably tell you a lot more if there was a body to go along with the head. Is there?"

Lestrade hesitated. "Well. Not yet. I think we can take care of this, now. Thank you. We'll call you back when we need you."

Sherlock walked into the dark flat and plopped onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. John leaned against the door post, looking at his friend, searching for answers for his feelings. What Sherlock could do, what he could tell about a person and their life just from looking at them was absolutely amazing. It was something he loved most about Sherlock, even though it made him an arrogant prick sometimes.

Sherlock looked at him, sharply. "That's the second time I've caught you staring at me. What are you staring at?"

John flushed and looked away. "Nothing. I was just thinking about our case. About how we're going to figure this out even though you couldn't tell much."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "I don't know." He said, frowning. "I've been thinking about that myself. I guess we'll figure it out somehow."

As if in an answer to his statement, the phone on the coffee table buzzed loudly.

Text message:

Blocked Number:

Don't worry. You won't find me. Oh no. You can try all you want, but I'm just too... slippery. Keep an eye out, my dear.

_J._


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3:

*3 months later*

Sherlock was dead.

He jumped off St. Bart's Hospital.

John couldn't believe it. He was in total denial. It wasn't possible, his best friend, his flatmate, the man he had fallen completely in love with. Dead. In the ground, dead. John didn't know how to cope. He barely moved from his chair. Staring at the empty space that was once occupied by Sherlock Holmes. Mrs. Hudson worried about him, often having to force him to eat. The man's eyes were dead. There was no light anymore. There was no spark, no expression. John wouldn't move on, she know that.

John stopped blogging. The flat became unkempt. John lost an incredible amount of weight in a short period of time. He turned pale, emaciated. He had shadows under his eyes from not sleeping. He stayed in the same place, day and night. Only ever moving to shower or go to the bathroom. Everything stayed as it was from before. Sherlock's test tubes and microscope stayed on the kitchen island, surrounded by papers and books. His violin sat on the floor by the window, next to a stack of sheet music, gathering dust. Nothing had changed. It was as if he could have simply been on a vacation. Except for poor John.

A year passed. John slowly began to recover. Barely, bit by bit, he started eating again. He left the flat maybe once a week. He got a job to keep him busy, but that didn't keep his mind off of Sherlock. He was always thinking about him. His beautiful, flashing, blue-grey eyes. The way he knew everything about your life just by looking at you. His long coat he always insisted on wearing, his fresh pressed, fitted suits. The way he would always wear a pair of colorful socks that matched his shirt. Everything about him was wonderful, and that's what John missed the most.

One cold February morning, there was a knock at the door downstairs, followed by a surprised scream, and a thump. John stood up and ran down the stairs. When he reached the bottom, though, he stopped. A mask of shock covering his pallid face. There, standing in the doorway, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. Coat and all. At his feet lay Mrs. Hudson, obviously unconscious. Sherlock looked up at John.

"Well.." He hesitated. "I'm not dead."

John walked forward slowly, and poked him in the chest.

"But.. But.. But.." He stuttered. "I saw you fall. I saw you die! How can you be here.. alive?"

"That's an interesting story.. but.. I'll save it for later." Sherlock crossed the distance between them in one short stride, took John in his arms, and kissed him full on the mouth. He kissed him deeply, hard, filling John's mouth with his tongue, exploring every inch with it.

John pulled away, punching Sherlock hard on the shoulder.

"OW." Sherlock yelled. "I s'pose I deserved that. I'm so so sorry John. I couldn't tell you anything. Moriarty would have killed you."

John frowned, then kissed Sherlock once on the lips. "I missed you." He said. "More than you know. More than you could have ever imagined."

"I know." Sherlock admitted. "I watched you. From afar, of course. I couldn't make any contact. I had to wait to make sure the coast was clear. When Moriarty's men had left. I had to pick the right time to come back. You should have gotten over me, John. You should have forgotten. You should have at least taken care of yourself."

"Sherlock." John stared at him in disbelief. "How the HELL was I supposed to take care of myself, or do anything, or get over you when I thought you were dead. I had fallen in love with you. I love you. I was nothing without you, I felt empty. I felt like I could never be whole again."

"At least you thought I was dead. I had to physically restrain myself from coming to see you. Everyday all I wanted was to come see you, tell you how sorry I was, kiss you and hold you. I love you, too, John. I always have." He said, looking into John's eyes. He glanced down at Mrs. Hudson, still unconscious. "We should probably move her.." He picked her up and carried her into her flat before grabbing John's hand and leading him up the stairs to his bedroom.

Sherlock slowly unbuttoned John's shirt while kissing his neck softly. He slipped the shirt over his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor. He threw his own coat and scarf into the corner before sinking to his knees to undo John's pants. He took John's hardness into his mouth, teasing the tip with his tongue. John moaned. Sherlock looked at him and started to go faster, taking his entire cock into his throat.

John knotted his finger in Sherlock's hair, pushing his head farther down onto his throbbing cock. Sherlock stood up, took off his shirt, and pushed John onto the bed. He let his pants drift down to his ankles as he squirted a sizeable amount of lube onto his hand. Using his first two fingers, he penetrated John's hole, going only so far as to make him gasp and wriggle. He kept going, deeper and deeper, faster and faster until John grabbed his arm and begged him to get inside him. Sherlock obliged, slicking his own cock with lube, and fucking John until they both came with spectacular orgasms.

The bed was covered with sticky cum, but neither of them cared. Sherlock fell asleep, moonlight reflecting off of his snowy white, muscular back. John lay awake tracing the planes of his back, until he drifted to sleep.


End file.
